I’m going to Milan today. France is having two weeks of school holidays, and I’m preparing myself for double shifts next week by fleeing the country for this week.

This will be my first trip to Milan, despite some well intentioned blunders in previous years. I’m also going back to Venice because I’ve recently read Joseph Brodsky’s meditative portrayal with winter-time Venice in Watermark. Venice as an Italian Petersburg – this I need to see afresh.

But this has got me thinking about famous Milanese and Venetians, which somehow progressed into an administrative panic… what would Marco Polo do in modern-day France?

For, you seen, the French are somewhat obsessed with lieu de naissance or place of birth. You need to include this on any formal document you fill out, and quite often on seemingly informal documents too. Why I worry for this long-deceased 13th-century Venetian trader and explorer is the controversy over his birthplace. Established historiography considers him a ‘citizen of the City of Venice’, but the Croatian Tourist Board maintains that he was born on the Adriatic island of Curzola, then part of the Venetian Republic, but nowadays the Croatian island of Korčula. It’s all a bit of an impasse really, with two such authoritative heavyweights battling it out…

I had first heard of this multiple birthplace theory when I was in Korčula. So, like the football team one barracks for as a child, I’m gunning for this stunning island’s claim to authenticity. Venice has too many attractions and too many tourists anyway, why not let Korčula have this one?

I’ve been on a number of strange pilgrimages to city and regional outskirts for a number of random reasons.

The problem is, I rarely find what I’m looking for, because my reasons for being in a particular place seem entirely vague – a certain road, monument, natural feature – that I’m too embarrassed to explain, and just try to muddle through whilst conveying the impression that I’m either local or have some idea where I’m going.

In Russia, one of the prevailing themes of random missions was looking for certain obscure tombstones and graves in cemeteries.

Certainly it feels very redeeming to stand in front of Fyodor Dostoevsky’s sepulchral monument, but that is nothing, for instance, to make one’s way out to Bogoslovskoe Cemetery to drink port wine on the anniversary of the death of Soviet rock god, Viktor Tsoi.

However, the most memorable headstones would have to be in Yekaterinburg’s Shirokorechenskoye cemetery, in the Ural Mountains. Buried within the grounds are the victims/perpetrators of the gangland violence of the 1990s, members of the Russian mafia honoured in grand style.

This malachite headstone, of kingpin Mikhail Kuchin (killed in 1994, aged 34), is ten-feet high and reported to have cost $64,000. The engraved detail which sticks in everyone’s memory is that the mobster is holding his car keys in his hand, ostentatiously displaying the Mercedes symbol.

In researching this post (yes, I do research… sometimes…) I came across an article entitled “How to be a member of the Russian Mafia in 5 easy steps: You too can be part of one of the bloodiest criminal groups in history!”

Wave a red rag at a bull, why don’t you? I was hooked from the first word!

I’d just like to share some shamelessly pilfered tips…

• Wear enough jewellery to support a small country
• Gender is not negotiable – please take a moment to check you are in fact male. Women have absolutely no role in the Russian Mafia except as wives or merchandise (more often the latter)
• The mafia prefers SUVs (who cares about the environment? After all, you’re probably not going to live past 35 anyway)

And as “extracurricular activity” one is recommended to ‘start a website to “set up” lonely American men with lovely Russian wives: I lov you very much and want to hav hapy life with you ferever. Sned monney fer arplane tiket. Use Western Union. – lov ferever, Olga’

Pure gold, I love it…

Having a bit of a snoop and poke around to see what other blogs on backpacking in Europe are offering, I came across this gem which reminded me of an otherwise banished memory of a horror hotel in Ljubljana, Slovenia.

Let me just say that otherwise picture-perfect Slovenia is one of my favourite countries in Europe. Small on the map, but packed full with such a vivid alpine, rural, urban and coastal vistas, it’s enough to make ones feet and camera trigger finger itch.

But that’s not all. I guess this tale just completes the imagery…

I has visited Ljubljana with a couple of friends (the same two as the Croatia trip, so if you’ve read this post or even this post, you probably know where this story is going – lots of bungles, but even more laughs). We were there at the same time as some international conference, which meant that all the accommodation was booked. There was only one place in town with available beds, although was it any wonder? Perched on top of a heavily-wooded hill, as far removed from anything resembling the town below, this rickety mansion of doom was empty, silent, and completely oblivious to Ljubljana’s hotel squeeze.

We trudged up to the Bela Lugosi of guesthouses in the dark of night, questioning our every breathless, pack-laden step. On arrival we nervously edged into the foyer, calling out our greetings, almost hoping that whoever manned the desk at midnight had retreated to their coffin or was out sucking blood, so that we could just return to the city to bar hop for the evening.

No such luck. The teenage night-watchman emerged. The hotel was very pricey. What had we done to deserve this damnation? After a quick conference amongst ourselves we decided to try charm.

What if we were to stay, just in a double room (thinking that we’d just share the bed), and perhaps he could just ignore that we had a third person in there?

He considered it a while; we think he liked the idea. He agreed.

One our way to our room, we stumbled across a deserted mattress in the corridor. Great! Now no need to have three in the bed! I drew the short straw and settled in for a night on the floor with the mattress.

There, of course, were the nightmarish bathrooms (and who knows, I’ll throw in a thunderstorm and some bats for good measure – why let the truth get in the way of a good story?) and only ice-cold water delivered from a hose for the shower, but all in all, we saved some money, so like any backpackers we felt content with our lot.

That was until, in the following days in Croatia, I started to scratch and scratch and scratch. My body was covered in raised red welts that stung and itched, and itched and stung. Ah, that hotel of horrors, how was I to know that it would deliver me my first (though unfortunately not the last) case of lice?

For all those eagle-eyed / stickler for details out there, that last post “technically” didn’t take place in Europe. And neither does this one. But I figure it’s all about global interconnection these days, so here’s a morsel about Mongolia…

What to do when there is no particular highlight of a journey, but instead the highlight is the journey itself?

Call it Mongolia.

I guess it was a logical progression in my first effort to enter Russia.

As logical as can be when this path begins in Cambodia, and one finds themself spirited into Mongolia – relatively clueless – on a train akin to a Cluedo murder mise en scène.

Professor Plum, with the rope, in the vestibule.

Or, more feasibly, with a dislodged overhead bag of plums. Our Mongolian counterparts had madly stocked up on bulky bags of fruit before crossing the border between China and their barren homeland.

Banding together with some fellow backpackers, we rented a sturdy Russian van with its even sturdier Mongolian driver and set off to the Gobi Desert.

Oh, the things to be seen in this vast land with its southern-sliver of “desert”. We had picked the right time to visit, just after the rains, and day after day I was struck by the abundance of life in this presumed arid wasteland.

Imagine my shock when we came across an ice valley, the remnants of a glacier which had been gradually declining over thousands of years – melting in its entirety in summer, reforming every winter.

We slid and scuttled over its frozen surface for what was possibly a kilometre, an icy canyon stroll.

But my favourite moment would have been my work as a bad-missionary. You see, it must be categorically stated, I am a nerd. So I fit in perfectly in China; playing badminton in the alleyways lit by the haze of the afternoon sun slipping away, flying kites in Tiananmen Square in the cool crisp evenings. I had brought my badminton set out to the desert, and it was the greatest toy for the nomad kids we were staying with in the family ger (yurt) encampments. Despite winds close to gale force, we would run around like eager shuttlecock-fetching puppies. In return, the kids let us ride their camels.

Both parties were in agreement, this was the deal of the century.

Do you go to great lengths to acquire your food? I once met three Azerbaijanis who did.

I’m not talking organic, grain-fed, hand-nurtured, intravenously-pickled, with a sprinkling of Atlantis sea salt… I’m talking an epic road trip, hurdling around hair-pin turns on high altitude roads.

To set the scene further, this is all mythical and spiritual Eurasian point-of-origin territory. The Altai Republic sits on the Russian corner of the crossroads of China, Mongolia and Kazakhstan and encompasses the “Golden Mountains of Altai” UNESCO World Heritage Site. Think wide open planes and snow-capped mountains, and you’re halfway there.

We met in the Altai Republic town of Aktash. I was hoping to travel to Kosh-Agach, and further east into Tuva, an area famed for throat singing, as introduced to the world through the documentary Genghis Blues. They had travelled from the neighbouring district, towards Mongolia, in search of sheep for shashlik (shish kebabs). Abandoning my plans, I joined them for the promise of a great picnic.

Yet holding on for dear life as I sat in the back of the car, I stared to doubt my decision. Azerbaijani pop music blared, and we flew along at a speed at which no Lada was ever designed to travel. We stopped slowed down only twice. The first time was to get me into the front of the car, as I was the tourist guest (I tried to turn down this offer of the passenger “seat of death” under the guise of extreme politeness, but that failed. I spent the rest of the journey wondering how I could sneak my seatbelt on without offending my hosts), and the second was to point out the wrecked shell of a truck that had crashed and exploded only a matter of days ago.

“Some people don’t know how to drive on these roads”, the driver confided in me. I could only muster a nervous nod, and quickly discovered religiosity in the form of fervent prayer for an unscathed arrival.

Somehow we managed it. We arrived in the tiny mountain village of Beltir, a middle of nowhere place that had been recently devastated by an earthquake. My hosts negotiated some sort of electrical-wire-for-sheep deal, and after extensive arguing, we turned around drove back again. With two live sheep in the boot of the car.

All original thoughts for my safety flew out the window and were dashed somewhere at the bottom of a mountain crevice on the return journey. The sheep were alive back there! I was a bit shocked and sickened at the thought. After slamming the vehicle around sharp corner after sharp corner, I could smell something strange… excrement? I must have had a puzzled look on my face, as “it’s just the sheep” was the next thing I was told.

‘I’m becoming a vegetarian’ became my mantra for the rest of the trip.

Needless to say, hours later, my resolve dissipated on one smell of the freshly, sizzling shashlik. Beside a small river, with good company, bad red wine and plentiful vodka, we ate and drank the dust and fears of the day away.

Not really, I’m just bluffing, but I’ve just come across a great quote, which I think is really applicable to the way that travel can open your eyes to the interaction between the natural and man-made world. Never fear, I’m not going to get all “inspirational quote for every day of the calendar year” on you (only today!), I just had a nice picture that I wanted to post as well…

Russian author, Nikolai Gogol (who seems to share my aversion to full stops and love of long sentences), wrote in his masterpiece novel, Dead Souls:

‘In short, it was all beautiful, as neither nature nor art could contrive, but as only happens when they unite together, when nature’s chisel puts its final touch to the often unintelligently heaped up labour of man, relieves the heavy masses, destroys the all too crudely palpable symmetry and the clumsily conceived gaps through which the unconcealed plan reveals itself so nakedly, and imparts a wonderful warmth to everything that has been created by the cold and carefully measured neatness and accuracy of human reason.’

Wow, if I were creating an international photography competition, that would be the exact criteria I would issue for submission of the works. And not suggesting that this would make the grade, but here is an image that I took on Roosky Ostrov (Russian Island) just off Vladivostok, in the Sea of Japan.

Wandering around before the sun broke through a particularly thick fog; I found this little decrepit shack on a farm. An opportunely placed spider’s web (aren’t they always!), strung across the barbed wire completes the image. In this case, however, it wasn’t solely the ‘neatness and accuracy of human reason’ which was cold, but the weather, which was downright nasty!

Vladimir Putin: when will the bare-chested 2008 tribute calendar be released? I for one would love more of these photos displayed for a year at my house… but why isn’t he modelling one of those “must for wannabe-hunters” elasticised khaki fish-net singlets? I guess a man in his position has never had to deal with sweating in un-ventilated train carriages across Siberia, so it wouldn’t be a high priority in his travel wardrobe…

Now maybe it’s because I’ve seen that Ikea in Paris sells Swedish meatballs (I’m never one to shy away from a good food conversation), or maybe because I’ve just heard from a friend in Finland that she’s recommended my blog to her boyfriend to help improve his English (oh no, good luck)… but this post is going to be devoted to the Zetor tractor restaurant in Helsinki. I hope I won’t be the subject of too much mirth for this – but if the truth has to come out, it must! I’ve been thinking of reindeer stew with mashed potatoes and lingonberries recently!!!

For anyone who is familiar with Zetor, it’s a “traditional Finnish” themed restaurant, named after a Czech tractor. A word of warning though, you should only enter the premises after a week of fasting – you won’t leave empty stomached!

Not only is the food as good as it is sizeable, Zetor is also home to the funniest menu in the Europe. (Any contenders please feel free to leave a comment, but it’s going to be a stiff competition).

Here are some excerpts that I found online:

I also had a chuckle at the “Snack for the DDR Women’s Shotput Team” which consists of ‘sausage, country potatoes and home-made mustard. Nothing green!’

But my favourite dish? It would have to be the “Oath to the Nation”

‘…I hereby promise to uphold these values: beetroot and blue cheese casserole, a succulent vegetarian dish of beetroot, blue cheese, Emmental cheese and onions, served with country potatoes and fried rye bread.’

Yum, yum, yum! Sounds like a national creed to me!


Overture of the Zetor Opera played by Zetor-veljet (The Zetor Brothers) and conducted by Lasse Tervonen on Sawolaiset perinnekonepäivät 19.6.2004 in Koljonvirta, Iisalmi, Finland

At last the day came, the end of a 30-day tourist visa visit to Russia by my boyfriend and my brother. After a month of St. Petersburg and Moscow it was time for them to catch the bus to Estonia, and for me to head north to the Khibiny Mountains, then south to the Caucasus Mountains and then east with the end-goal of Japan.

This anticipated trip far from my mind at the time, I was just bustling to get the boys and the bags to the bus stop. We were staying with friends near the Mariinsky Theatre, which seemed perfect; there was a direct bus from there to the Ligovsky Prospekt bus terminal. Not long after boarding the bus however, the conductor announced that the bus would be waiting for half an hour before leaving, and all other passengers were promptly refunded their fares and they made alternate travel arrangements. All… except us. I spent half an hour arguing fruitlessly with the conductor, as we were already cutting it fine for time, but no double-fare refund for us and our baggage. In between snarling and pleading, I reflected grumpily that we should have just got an “unofficial taxi” (ie. hailing any car from the street), cursed my stupidity and debated whether or not to cut our losses, disembark and just take a car regardless.

To make matters worse, when the bus started again, the conductor announced a change of route. We could only go as far at Ploshchad Vosstaniya metro station. Argghhhh! At this stage, a whole lot of frustration and sorrow built up and I sobbed for the whole journey, dreading the impending farewell though desperately hoping that they wouldn’t miss their international bus.

With all the sweetness of a serpent the conductor told us when it was our stop.

“I know… thank you… for nothing”, I hissed through a fake smile of grated teeth.

A car quickly stopped for my outstretched hand on Nevsky Prospekt.

“Ligovsky Prospekt. 50 roubles”. I instructed with a puffy, tear-bloated face. I thought the price was going to be too low for three foreigners, with bags, but I was pissed off, so I thought I’d try it anyway.

“I’m not from SPb” the driver began, “so I don’t know where that is…”

“I do”, I replied. “I can show you if you want. It’s not far. 50 roubles?”

He agreed, rather amicably, saying if that’s what I thought was a good price, then that was fine by him. With my hostility dissipating, my powers of observation returned. I realised we were in quite possibly the nicest car I’d ever ridden in, and that the driver was quite young, blonde, fine-featured and good-looking.

He started to talk. I wasn’t in that good a mood yet, so my answers were just grunts.

“You’re not from Russia?”

“No”

“Are you visiting or living here?”

“Living”

“Are you here for work?”

“Study”.

At this stage, I realised I was being rude, so I asked him in return if he was Russian, and what he was doing in SPb. It turns out that he was Ukrainian, in town for work, and that he was a dancer with the Kirov Opera Ballet.

That touched a nerve. I think I had been to almost every ballet in the Kirov’s repertoire performed at the Mariinsky Theatre – and despite myself (and my boyfriend in the pack seat, and my bloodshot eyes and tear-stained face), I found myself… FLIRTING!?!

“Oh really?” a character who was not myself asked, and then found my conversation again. We chatted all the way to the bus terminal, and were waiting for a car to pull out so we could park, but then I noticed something being waved in the hand of one of the two men arguing in the adjacent space.

He was waving a gun.

“Maybe we should park elsewhere”, I suggested.

The driver agreed whilst turning to face the boys in the back seat with a devilish grin “Welcome to Russia”, he announced in heavily-accented English.

We got out of the car, the three of us buzzing with excitement.

Simultaneously, we all gushed “I can’t believe that just happened!”

Amidst our laughter, I then elaborated, “I can’t believe we just met a Kirov dancer!”

The boys turned to me – “What are you talking about? We can’t believe we’ve just seen a gun in the parking lot!”

I’ve already mentioned, somewhere at the outset, that I think Vienna is ace. But why the attraction? In fact, why be attracted to any city? It’s still just somewhere to seek one’s livelihood and pursue distraction at a much faster tempo.

But in the absence of raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens, bright copper kettles and warm woollen mittens (although I’m sure in Vienna one can find cream coloured ponies and crisp apple strudels, doorbells and sleigh bells and schnitzel with noodles…), what do I rank as my favourite things in Vienna?

The list is simple (though far from exhaustive) and contains my “top two”: the Secession building (as featured on the Austrian 50 euro cent coins) and Fernwärme incinerator (as never to be featured on any currency).

Let me elaborate…

Like Montmartre in Paris groans from the hangovers of Vincent van Gogh, Pablo Picasso and Amedeo Modigliani, the Succession building echoes with the footsteps and artistic visions of Gustav Klimt. The building, designed by Joseph Maria Olbrich and constructed in the last gasps of the nineteenth century, is an icon of Art Nouveau (or Jugendstil) architecture, topped by a colossal gold-leaved dome.

Modern, old-worldly, excessive, natural, gaudy, refined… the Secession building is simultaneous contradictions. Furthermore, it houses Klimt’s Beethoven Frieze (1902), a 34m long homage to composer Ludwig van Beethoven.

The work presents a full spectrum of humanity suffering for happiness. Depicting yearnings, desire, grief, and wantonness, the human figure is depicted both in monumental isolation, and as accompanied by the nightmarish fancies of the ‘hostile forces’ of Sickness, Madness and Death, and (somewhat reassuringly) the ethereal muses of poetry and the arts. Yes, a little on the intense side, but it must be seen to be believed!

The Fernwärme garbage incinerator, on the other hand, is fantastic and practical! It’s ‘Who Framed Roger Rabbit’ meets Antoni Gaudi (I’m sure this is the official genre) animated architecture, plus it disposes of the city’s waste. Watching the gold mosaic glittering in the sunlight, I can’t help but think that it’s a far cry from my local rubbish tip!